


Ain't A Rule If It Ain't Broken

by ERD_Fiction



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: All I usually write is fluff, Fluff, I'm only sorry that I'm not sorry, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Not Quite A One Night Stand But Almost A Little I Guess, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, There's a bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERD_Fiction/pseuds/ERD_Fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only as Jesse McCree rolls over into an eye full of dragon and a mouth full of hair that he realizes he’s going into the doghouse for this one.</p><p>Last night hadn't been all that different from any of those other nights.  The only difference, and the biggest difference, is that he had broken one of the brand new Golden Rules at Overwatch with one Hanzo Shimada.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't A Rule If It Ain't Broken

**Author's Note:**

> This is what you get when you encourage my bad habits. You have no one to blame but yourselves.

It’s only as Jesse McCree rolls over into an eye full of dragon and a mouth full of hair that he realizes he’s going into the doghouse for this one.

The slight throb in his temples helps him remember what happened the previous night. Parties thrown after successful missions usually led to nothing but trouble for at least one or more of the operatives working for Overwatch. McCree can remember nights opening broom closets to full-fledged sex scandals, watching chairs split across the kitchen table in a show of strength, falling down stairs and breaking his ankle on his way for his twelfth beer.

Last night hadn't been all that different from any of those other nights. The only difference, and the biggest difference, is that he had broken one of the brand new Golden Rules at Overwatch with one Hanzo Shimada.

Groaning, be brings a hand up to his face, palming his forehead in a vain attempt to ease the pain throbbing through his forehead. “Shit…”

He should’ve known better. He should’ve stopped after the fifth glass of bourbon, should’ve gone to bed as Torbjorn had three hours earlier. At this point, he should’ve learned that he can’t keep his hands to himself when he’s drunk, and that the elder Shimada is more of a lightweight than he’d ever be willing to admit. And yet.

Like molasses, the memories from the previous night ooze back into his mind. Challenging the guys to drink shots, watching the archer’s Adam’s apple bob every time he poured the sake down his throat. How the living room had cleared out until it was just him, Hanzo, and Lucio passed out on the floor. How he had pulled Hanzo on top of him on the couch and slipped his hand past his obi as his BAMF belt tumbled to the floor, and how he was halfway to jacking off the archer then and there when it hits him that they should probably head for a proper bed before someone walks in on them.

Stumbling and sucking hickies into each other’s shoulders every step of the way, they made it back to Hanzo’s room. A bottle of lube, a rubber, and the rest was history.

Damn if that dragon didn’t look hot lying on his back.

Groggily, McCree looks around, trying to locate his clothes. He’s halfway to looking for his serape without any luck before realizing he is just too hungover to care. Groaning, he lies back down, covering his eyes again.

Here he was, lying in bed, glowing from sex and reeking of booze, well aware that he had broken the rules and well aware that he would absolutely without question do it again.

“Fucking hell…” he grumbles.

“Good morning to you, as well.”

This gives him a start. Jumping, his head whips around, an action he sorely regrets within seconds as his temples start to throb even more. Despite the fact that he might be just as hung over as McCree was, Hanzo’s eyes are clear, and his face, while pensive, didn’t seem pained. His sable hair spills over his shoulders, sticking out like porcupine spikes after last night’s misadventures. His neck and shoulders are littered with purple bruises, his skin is as bare as it was when he dragged McCree down onto the sheets last night, and it’s all that the cowboy can do to stop himself from kissing him right then and there.

It’s when he sees that Hanzo is wrapped up in his serape that he actually leans down and does so. It’s a surprise and a relief to find that Hanzo seems just as eager to kiss him back.

“Morning, darlin’,” he manages, lying back down and facing the dragon head-on. It only hits him now just how blown both his voice and Hanzo’s is right now. He can still hear his name on Hanzo’s lips, groaned out over and over again like a chant.

“How are you feeling?” the man rasps. McCree wonders vaguely how they hadn’t gotten a noise complaint last night.

“Peachy keen,” McCree drawls. “Head’s hurtin’, ass is smartin’. But least I got you to look at. And if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes, I don’t know what is.”

Hanzo chuckles. He shifts under the blankets, and that’s when McCree realizes, with a hint of delight, that neither of them are wearing any clothes.

“What ‘bout you, sweetheart?”

Hanzo snorts. He repeats: “Sweetheart.”

“Yeah?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching McCree’s face. Then, he smirks, and mimics the cowboy mockingly. “Peachy keen.”

McCree lets out a laugh. “Aw, t’s too early to be teasin’ me like this.”

“Hmm.”

They fall silent, staring at each other. Almost in unison, they flip onto their backs, eyes drawn to the ceiling. McCree doesn’t need the archer to say anything to know that they’re both thinking the same thing. But, someone has to say it first.

“So,” he mumbles. “Uh. That happened.”

“We broke the rule, Jesse.”

It takes a minute for him to respond. Not because he doesn’t want to admit it. Oh, he knows what he’s done. He dug his grave and he’s going to lie in it until the rest of Overwatch comes to fill the ditch with dirt.

No, it takes him a minute because the sound of his name on Hanzo’s tongue makes his heart bob like an apple and his brain turn to mashed potatoes. Jesse. _Jesse. Jesse…_

“Jesse.”

He blinks and turns back to Hanzo, meeting his eyes again. By the hint of irritation on his face, it seems like he’s been trying to get his attention for a few minutes.

“I know, darlin’, I know,” he mumbles.

“You do not seem too concerned.”

“Naw. There’s gonna be hell to pay one way or the other. Don’t mean I gotta get myself worked up over it.”

“I suppose.”

That’s a lie. Jesse McCree is already worked up about it already. He just went to bed with a fellow Overwatch operative, who he fully intends to bed again, and he knows that saying there would be “hell to pay” is an understatement for what they could be faced with once the rest of the team figures it out.

But for now, he’s got a dragon in his bed, smoke still rising from his nostrils and skin still smoldering with the afterglow. He’s not about to let this go without enjoying it a little. Days of pining after the archer, weeks of waggling eyebrows and brushing arms and stealing stares, months of subtle flirting and sweet nothings and lewd passes, have finally come to bear the fruit he was never supposed to sink his teeth into.

Might as well eat the whole apple before doing the walk of shame.

With a smirk, McCree points to the red cloth draped around Hanzo’s shoulders. “Y’know, I think it looks better on you.”

It takes a moment for Hanzo to figure out what he’s talking about. When he does, he glowers, looking away from McCree and pushes the serape away from his face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Hanzo might be blushing. “Silence, coyote.”

“Awright, awright,” McCree laughs, reaching over to grab the thick fabric. “I can take it back now, if you--”

“No.” Alright. This time, McCree knew he was blushing. It might’ve been just the slightest tint in his cheeks, but it still sent a thrill down the cowboy’s spine. McCree can’t help laughing again, which earns him a smack on the shoulder.

Months of pining after the dragon, only to find out the dragon has been pining after him all this time, too.

“You are changing the subject,” Hanzo deflects, lying back on his side. He’s slow with his movements, but he pulls the serape back up over his ink-covered shoulder. McCree tries to ignore the shiver of delight this send down his spine.

“So are you.”

“You changed it first.”

“What are we, a couple of five year olds?”

“Be serious.”

McCree takes this moment to move himself closer. Bringing his hand up under the sheet, he places it on Hanzo’s side. When the archer jumps back, he pulls his hand back, hovering it right over his skin.

“Listen, darlin’,” he murmurs gently. “It ain’t gonna be easy comin’ out of this room after what we’ve done, and I ain’t sure if I’m gonna get the chance to enjoy this again. Gimme this, sweetheart, if nothin’ else.”

Hanzo stares into his eyes, the tint still fading from his cheeks. This time, when McCree lowers his hand, Hanzo doesn’t jump away. They come together, Hanzo’s head on McCree’s chest, the cowboy’s arm on the small of the archer’s back. Burying his beard in the crown of the archer’s hair, he closes his eyes, enjoying the smell of sweat, sake, and soap coming off of the smaller man.

“Hanzo?” His name rolls off his tongue so naturally. No longer Agent Shimada. No longer Shimada-san. Hanzo. _Hanzo._

“Yes?”

“If I’m bein’ honest here, I could get used to wakin’ up like this every day.”

He takes advantage of the silence, pulling himself even closer to the man lying in his arms. His hand traces the muscles along Hanzo’s spine, trying to memorize every ridge, every bump, every bone. The room starts spinning as he intoxicates himself with the smell of the dragon in his arms.

“You know we cannot.” The reply is quiet, but to the point. It hurts to hear, mostly because it’s true.

“But it’d be nice, right?” McCree tries, palming the base of the shorter man’s back. “Wakin’ up like this. You n’ me.”

Initially, he is greeted with silence. He fills the silence with the sound of his name on the other man’s lips. Jesse, _Jesse, Jesse._ Over and over again, from the moment the stars began to blink in to when they faded out.

What he wouldn’t give for that every night.

“Circumstances providing,” Hanzo admits at last, “I...agree.”

McCree smirks. Against his better judgement, he presses his lips to the top of Hanzo’s forehead. It isn’t until he feels the scratch of Hanzo’s beard against his shoulder that he realizes he wasn’t imaging Hanzo shoving his head under his chin.

“Knew you were winkin’ at me the other day, sugarplum,” he teases. This earns him another swat on the shoulder, full of purpose but lacking bite.

“They say that silence is a virtue,” the archer grumbles. “One that you clearly lack.”

“Aw, don’t be so mean, darlin’, my head’s achin’ somethin’ fierce.”

“Then for the love of all things you hold in high esteem, Jesse, _shut your damn mouth._ ”

McCree bites back a chuckle without success, earning him yet another swat. Something tells him he’s not the only one here with a severe hangover and an unspoken fear of the consequences on the other side of the door. Fine by him. He could lie like this for hours, content to keep his lips against Hanzo’s crown as the sunlight slipped through the cracks of the blinds.

If he dozes, he’s not aware for how long. Long enough for the throb in his head to dull and for Hanzo to have turned over in his arms. His head is still lodged under the cowboy’s chin. When he brings his arm around the archer, the smaller man slides closer to him, curling up against his chest.

“Ooh, darlin’, you’re gonna be the death of me,” McCree moans, burying his head into Hanzo’s bare shoulder, pressing his lips to the bruised and purple skin. The other man laughs.

“I would have thought that after all of your years with Overwatch, you might have picked up some semblance of survival techniques,” the archer chides.

“Survivin’ ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” the brunette drawls. “How d’they ‘spect me to wake up every mornin’ when you’re sleepin’ all the way across base?”

“You have managed before.”

“Don’t mean I know how to manage now, darlin’.”

He meant it as a joke. The silence that follows implies that the dragon has taken it otherwise. Keeping his lips pressed to Hanzo’s skin, for once, the gunslinger remains silent. Somewhere nearby, an alarm clock is going off. Eight o’clock. Time to start the day.

Except McCree isn’t ready for the night to end.

“We broke the rules,” the dragon rasps.

“You already said that.”

“We broke the rules twice.”

McCree blinks. “Twice.”

Hanzo twists in his arms, smirking up at him with a hint of humor. “Do not tell me you have forgotten already.”

“S’still a bit of a blur, sweetheart.”

Hanzo pauses. He repeats again: “Sweetheart.”

“Yeah. Darlin’. Sweetheart o’mine. Apple o’ my eye.”

“McCree.”

“Naw, that’s my name.”

More than anything, he wants to keep Hanzo lying in his arms, faced flushed and laughing, ignoring the world as they spend the rest of their days wrapped up together, close enough so that no one can see where the cowboy ends and the archer begins. But, as he knows, a dragon will only stay in its lair for so long.

“We are going to have to confront them.”

Jesse pauses, lets his lips graze against Hanzo’s skin. The swollen marks, he notes, will not be hidden at all. Not when his hickeys go all the way out to his tattoo.

“I know, I know.”

“You already said that.”

“Mhmmm.”

More silence.

“We broke the rules.”

“Repeatin’ it ain’t gonna make it go away.”

Hanzo tries to pull away from his arms. McCree clings to him, holding him tighter. The dragon is getting impatient.

“Coyote.”

“Hanzo.”

“Take this seriously.”

McCree doesn’t respond right away. But as he feels the dragon tense in his arms, he knows that he can’t put this off any longer. With a longing sigh, he loosens his grip, allowing Hanzo to turn over onto his side to face him. In his mind, he can still see the blown-out eyes, the flushed face, the thin trail of drool falling off of those tempting lips.

“I am,” he mumbles.

“You are not pleased.”

“‘Course I’m not.” Jesse brings up a hand and traces it along the archer’s jaw, ignoring the way he tenses at his touch. “I finally get a night with you, and now it’s gotta end. Probably for good.” He shakes his head. “Shit, who knows what they’re gonna do when they find out ‘bout last night?”

It takes a moment, but the archer brings up a hand to McCree’s. Weaves their fingers together, gripping his hand tight. “I still do not see why they would make such a commotion over this.”

“You read the manual, honey. Cover t'cover, line t'line. Says it right in there, big n’ bold in brand new letterin’. Operatives can’t bang other operatives.”

Hanzo repeats: “Brand new.”

“What are you, turnin’ into some kinda parrot?”

“Jesse.”

That shuts him up.

“You say brand new,” Hanzo continues, “as if this is not one of the original rules.”

McCree snorts. “Course it ain’t. You heard ‘bout all of the shenanigans from prime-time Overwatch. Ain’t no one could keep their hands to themselves back in the ol’ days.”

“And then something changed.” It’s not an observation. It’s a fact.

McCree opts out of giving the archer a straight answer. He presses his palm to the other man’s cheek, eyes locked, bodies tangled. He traces the man in front of him with his eyes. The serape, he notes, is still wrapped around Hanzo’s torso.

“Somethin’ always does.”

“Then explain.”

Pulling his hand back, McCree breaks his gaze away from Hanzo, rubbing the back of his neck. It wasn’t easy to talk about.

It never will be.

“Used to be that Overwatch didn’t care who we did business with. People got close on base all the time, a lil’ too close now and then.”

He pauses. The old days. Overwatch, back in its prime. It was barely a decade back, but it felt like it had been centuries. Overwatch, back when they had Gerard. Back when they had Reyes and Morrison.

Back when they had Amari.

A tap on the cheek brings him back to the present. His gaze snaps back to the dragon, impatient for answers. Pulling away from Hanzo, he sits himself up, suppressing a groan at the creak of his bones and the ache of his muscles. Hanzo makes no attempt to stop him as he reaches over to the table for the ashtray. McCree continues. “It was all fun n’ games until Morrison had to screw it up for the rest of us.”

Snatching up a half-finished cigarillo, he flicks open his lighter. “Ask anyone these days, n’ they ain’t gonna say shit ‘bout Reyes and Morrison. But back in the day? Everyone knew they had a good thing goin’ on. Shit, they did everythin’ together. Ate, slept, drank, trained, shit, you name it. Stuck together like glue, through thick and thin, through Blackwatch and all the trouble it brought.

“Then Morrison left his team in a burning building because he had to be the fuckin’ hero. An’ when I say team, I ain’t talkin’ a couple of stragglers. Thirty soldiers strong, burnin’ alive, while Poster-Boy Jack left them to fend off the flames as he hauled Reyes over his shoulder and got the fuck out of Dodge.”

Blowing smoke out of his mouth, he closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, before continuing. "Ain’t nobody gonna tell you that. They’ll talk ‘bout how Jack saved Gabe, how he risked his hide to keep Reyes from kickin’ the bucket. S’what the media got to hear. But that ain't the half of it.”

“He left his men to die for one soldier,” Hanzo states flatly.

“You bet your ass he did. An’ Overwatch almost hung him for it. Got mail for months from families who were ready to storm down the gates. ‘Course, Morrison tried to make excuses, how they shoulda had the brains to get outta that hell before gettin’ barbequed. But Overwatch made it crystal clear. Morrison was supposed to protect his men. N’ he didn’t.”

“And so they ordered for Morrison and Reyes to remain separate.”

“Yup. Simple as that. Thought it would do everyone good to keep those two apart. Reyes and Morrison raised up a ruckus about it, but for a while, it wasn’t that bad.”

The cigarillo burns out far too fast, and McCree stubs it out, craving another. “That’s when the fightin’ started. S’when Reyes started givin’ Morrison shit about Overwatch. S’when the good ol’ days of Overwatch ended.”

He chuckles darkly. “Y’know how I said they had to do everythin’ together? Held true to the end. Got so close, they had to go off and die together.”

Running a hand through his hair, McCree lies back down again, staring up at the ceiling.

“I did not know,” is all the archer has to say.

“S’stupid and it ain’t fair. But history is history, and if there’s one thing Overwatch wants t’avoid, it’s repeatin’ it. Which is a shame, darlin', cuz I really ain't keen on one-night stands.”

Silence fills the room again. McCree closes his eyes. Here he was, still lying in bed, well aware that he had broken the rules and well aware that he wouldn’t even get the chance to break them again.

It’s only when he feels Hanzo shift beside him that he starts to open his eyes. As the archer slides on top of him, however, they dart open.

“Darl--” Before he can get a word in edgewise, he is silenced with a kiss. His heart starts to bob again in his chest as he slides his tongue against the smaller man’s lower lip, his arms reaching around to wrap around Hanzo. He groans into his mouth as their lips start to crash together again, as their bodies slide against each other.

He's not really sure what the dragon is after until he feels the roll of his hips. "Whoa there, sweetheart," he grunts between stolen kisses.

"I thought you said you were not keen on one-night stands," the archer teases, rolling his hips against the gunslinger's.

“Shit, Hanzo,” McCree manages. “Ain’t sure I’m in the mood after all that talkin'.”

Hanzo moves his mouth away from his mouth, sliding his lips over to his ear. As he presses the cowboy down into the mattress, he murmurs into his ear.

“ _Jesse._ ”

Images of the archer lying on the bed flood into his mind, eyes blown and mouth stretched wide with a hellish grin. McCree gulps, groaning as he feels teeth scrape down his neck and onto his shoulder. Jesse, Jesse, _Jesse…_

“You really are gonna be the death o’me,” he hisses, gritting his teeth as their bodies start to press and grind again.

“I do not know when I will get this opportunity again,” Hanzo growls. Their lips come together, McCree’s hands start raking across Hanzo’s back again and the dragon bites down on his swollen lips as if he’s determined to draw blood. McCree chases his lips as the dragon pulls away. His eyes trace the hair that falls into the archer’s eyes, the bead of sweat already forming on his forehead, the embers of his eyes.

“And I am not done with you.”

Just like that, he’s back in the dragon’s den, with no intention of leaving.

As their bodies come together for a reprise of last night’s adventures, Jesse McCree is well aware that they are both prolonging the inevitable. They broke the rules, twice, three times, hell, they might go on and break them a fourth time. He should know better. Hanzo should know better. They should both know better.

But it’s hard to know better when the man you’ve been pining after for months is determined to devour you, cover your body from head to toe in marks and scars and sweat, greedy for attention and smoldering with desire.

Whatever’s outside of the bedroom could wait. All McCree could give a damn about right now is breaking rules with one Hanzo Shimada.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for wasting my English degree by writing gay porn, Mom.
> 
> Anyways, this is. It I guess. A couple people seemed to like my first McHanzo word vomit, so I decided to do it again. I might have more for this, I kind of have the idea for a bigger story here. But for now, I'm posting this up as a one-shot.
> 
> Shout out to Jesse McQueer for making this possible with his gay cowboy ass.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Lemme know whatcha think!
> 
> \--EDYM


End file.
